


It's Always Watching: A Star Trek Discovery Horror Story

by Komodo13



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Body Horror, Gen, Haunted Houses, Horror, Klingon, Space Battles, Star Trek Discovery - Freeform, Star Trek Discovery Compliant, USS Discovery (Star Trek)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-08 07:40:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21232211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Komodo13/pseuds/Komodo13
Summary: Fleeing a Klingon attack in a damaged shuttlecraft, Michael Burnham and Paul Stamets believe they've found refuge in a Federation science ship hidden in a dark nebula. But Burnham soon learns that the ship holds nightmarish secrets and may be the key to unlocking a horror beyond imagination...





	1. The Heat of Battle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story takes place during Season 1, between "Context is for Kings" and "The Butcher's Knife Cares Not For the Lamb's Cry."

“Burnham, look out—“ But Burnham had already stabbed at her controls, and the shuttlecraft banked hard to starboard, straining against the gravity stabilizers forcing the craft’s four still-living occupants to strain against their straps and grab whatever they could for purchase. Beside her, above the still-smoking ruin of his control panel, the dead pilot just slumped like an overstuffed rucksack. The interior of the shuttle strobed a deep and shocking green as Klingon’s disruptor bolts went wide of the target.

“Jesus, Burnham, how about a little warning next time?” Stamets groused from his seat in the passenger bench in the cargo bay of the shuttle. His normally-sour voice had an extra edge of hysteria in it, and a compartment somewhere in the back of Burnham’s mind wondered how long it would be before he began to lose control.

“This is some fucking rescue,” spat Ensign Colwyn, the passenger seated opposite Stamets, a burly security officer in a torn and singed uniform bearing signage of the _USS Messik,_ now a slow-burning mass of alloys and polymers and corpses behind them. “Your goddamn ship couldn’t even bother to wait around until extraction—“

“Shut _up_, Todd!” shouted the other _Messik _evacuee—a slender, pretty science officer whose green eyes had remained saucer-big with incipient shock ever since they’d beamed her off her escape pod. Her voice was on the verge of breaking, too, but there was conviction behind it. “You want them to let the _Becht_ go down just so they could babysit our recovery?”

“Don’t tell me to shut up, Lyssa! I—“

“Both of you shut up!” Stamets shouted. “We risked our lives coming for you!”

Burnham didn’t hear the rest, because her heart seized up as the _M’Chla-_class Klingon scout ship suddenly rose like a revenant in the viewport, close enough for Burnham to see the little disruptor cannons on the sides of its foresection. She let out and involuntary cry of alarm (_an illogical display of emotion that does nothing to address your current situation, and therefore a waste of energy and focus,_ Sarek would say), and instinctively punched the engines up to the redline. The viewport flared green with the Klingon’s disruptor-fire as the shuttlecraft sprinted between the bat-like wings of the scout ship.

Screams rang out from behind her, as Burnham allowed herself a moment to take in the unsettling view of the ship’s skeleton-like structure, as if the carcass of some great avian had been resurrected by some terrible necromancy and then grafted with shields and sensors and guns. Even the most up-to-date Starfleet intel on House Hak’karrl was maddengly opaque, but the belief was that the bio-alloy skin of their ships, and even perhaps the spaceframes, contained biomass from enemies they’d conquered in battle. Not for the first time, Burnham felt her understanding slam up against the unscalable wall of Klingon culture.

“Hold on!” Burnham shouted without turning around. She engaged the warp drive, knowing they were too close to the Klingon ship, but not caring. The boxy little craft shuddered around them as it slid into warp space on a malformed warp field like a wrecking ball through a wall. Alarms wailed and the undamaged portion of the control console flashed warnings at her like a child desperate for attention. Suddenly, the ship lurched and the stars transformed from streaks back to pinpricks, as the shuttlecraft skidded into subspace.

“What’s happening?” Lyssa asked.

“Our warp field collapsed,” Burnham explained as her fingers hurried over the tactical controls. “We went to warp too close to the Klingons.”

“You went to warp within minimum safe distance?” Stamets asked incredulously. “Are you insane?”

“We needed to get out of there,” Burnham shot back. “They had a target lock on us. They would have shot us down in another minute. These shields can’t stand up to a barrage from a warship.”

Lyssa stepped on the acidic reply. “Can you get us back to warp?”

Burnham shook her head, feeling her stomach bottom out as the damage-control readouts scrolled across the panel by her knee. “Not any time soon. We threw the coils out of alignment. The whole warp-control system needs to reboot. That will take about an hour. Maybe more.”

“We need to contact _Discovery_,” Stamets said urgently. “Like, right now. This second. They need to get here and…”

A panicked squawk from the tactical control cut him off.

“What’s that?”

“We picked up the Klingons on long-range,” Burnham read off the sensor readout. “They’re heading this way under impulse power. I guess we took out their warp field as well.” She turned and faced Stamets. He was even paler than normal, something Burnham wouldn’t have thought possible a few hours ago. “We can’t hail _Discovery_. That will lead the Klingons right to us.”

“You said their warp drive was down—“

“They have damage-control crews,” Burnham said. “They can get their systems up a lot faster than ours.”

“Goddamn it,” Colwyn let out a shuddering laugh. “The_ Discovery_ rescued us for a grand total of fifteen minutes.”

_“Shut up, Todd!”_ Lyssa shouted at him.

Burnham shut it all out and concentrated on her sensor scans of the sector. “We need a place to hide…and I think I found it.” She punched in a heading and the shuttlecraft veered off. The starfield outside the viewports slid portside until a greyish smudge in space the size of her fist appeared in the main viewport.

Stamets unbelted himself and made his way up to the console. He blanched for a moment at the corpse of the pilot, then fixed his gaze at the smudge “Is that a…dark nebula?”

“It reads like one,” Burnham nodded.

“What’s a dark nebula?” Colwyn asked.

“It a smokescreen in space,” Stamets said. “All gas and dust…and the perfect place to hide.”

“For a little while anyway,” Burnham said as she set the coordinates into the nav system.

“Burnham…Burnham, what’s this?” Stamets pointed to a weak, flicking readout on the pilot’s smashed control panel. It was distorted from being displayed on melted polymer, but Burnham could recognize it as coming from the comm panel.

“Let’s see…” she said and transferred comms to her control display. An IFF signal pulsed in blue lettering.

“There’s a ship in there?” Stamets asked incredulously. “What are they doing parked inside a dark nebula?”

“Maybe they’re hiding from the Klingons, too,” Lyssa suggested.

“According to their signal it the _USS Pretorious,”_ Burnham said, reading off the data file that came up automatically as the shuttlecraft’s computer recognized the IFF signal. “It’s a specialized science vessel. Not much more data about it.”

“Whatever they’re doing, we stand a better chance with them than on our own,” Colwyn said.

Burnham nodded. “Can’t argue with that…” She adjusted the shuttlecraft’s approach and gunned the engines. The little ship plunged into the nebula like a bullet into a body.


	2. The Ghost Ship

“This isn’t right,” Stamets observed as the shuttle shook for the seventh or eighth time. Burnham touched the controls again, trying to keep the ship on stable and on course. Despite her best efforts though, the small shuttlecraft kept straying from the bright yellow line on her console that showed her trajectory to the _Pretorious._

Burnham considered herself a keen observer or her own limitations—it was impossible to have an inflated opinion of yourself when living among Vulcans—and she knew that while she could pilot a shuttlecraft she was hardly a skilled pilot. She needed Keyla Detmer here, working wonders with the craft’s pitch and yaw.

“I know,” she answered. “Dark nebulas are just clouds of dust and particulate matter. There shouldn’t be energy discharges here. None of these things make sense.”

“Maybe that what _Pretorious_ is studying,” Stamets mused, then noticed the pilot’s corpse again, and back away from the control console.

“Problems?” Colwyn asked tightly from behind them.

“This nebula doesn’t make sense,” Burnham explained. “Dark nebulas are dust and particulate matter, but this one…. There are energy discharges, and power readings from something in the center, but it’s not a forming star. I don’t know what it is.”

“Who cares as long as we get away from that warship back there?” Lyssa said.

“She has a point, Burnham,” Stamets said, some of the hysteria returning to his voice. “We should try and haul them.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea. We don’t know where that Klingon ship is, and if they receive our signal…”

“Burnham!” Stamets snapped. “We are stuck in this nebula with a damaged shuttle! I think we can take the risk.”

“Commander, I—“

“Just do it!”

Burnham tamped down the frustration and fury she felt from the fresh bruise on her ego—_neither logical nor useful at this moment--_and opened the hailing frequencies.

“_USS Pretorious_ this is shuttlecraft _Tuan._ We are transporting survivors of a Klingon attack. We are damaged an in need of repair. Do you copy,_ Pretorious?_ We are looking for safe haven. There is a Klingon attack ship en route to this location, and we cannot go to warp. Do you copy, _Pretorious?_”

The shuttle shook and bounced some more, then lurched to the side like an atmospheric craft in a wind sheer. Burnham hurriedly reset the course guidance programming, and the shuttlecraft stabilized briefly, but still had a slight wobble.

“Maybe they don’t want to hear from us,” Colwyn said caustically. “Can’t say as I blame them.”

Burnham and Stamets ignored him, simply squinted at the console. Finally, Stamets simply slapped the comms panel out of frustration. “Are you’re sure it’s there?” he asked petulantly. It set Burnham’s teeth on edge not to be able to upbraid him, as was her duty as an XO aboard the _Shenzhou._ Control the problem before it affected the ship enough for the captain to notice. She shook away the temptation.

That ship was dead, and so was her captain. Burnham had killed them both. She’d forfeited the right to be irritated by a crewmember’s behavior. She stuffed it into the great, yawning chasm in the center of her being and concentrated on the task at hand.

_…as we’d expect from a Vulcan…_

“It’s there,” she responded. “Look at that,” and pointed to the results of her sensor scan.

Stamets visibly started at the readout. “That’s…that’s insane! Power readings like that indicate…massive amounts of energy output…”

“Fascinating,” Colwyn griped. “How about we know on their door rather than dick around in here waiting for the Klingons to carve us all up?”

Burnham and Stamets continued to ignore him. “They’re even obscuring any life form readings.”

“Well, something’s got to be alive on there to be pumping out that kind of energy...”

“But are they Starfleet?” Burnham asked. And for a moment Stamets was silent. Then the comms panel crackled.

_“Shuttlecraft Tuan, this is _Pretorious,” said a woman’s voice_. “This is Captain Crampton. Stand by for landing in shuttlebay two. We’ll guide you in.”_

“Thank Christ,” Colwyn sighed.

“Will you stop?” Lyssa admonished him. He gave her a sour look.

“_Pretorious,_ we’re standing by,” Burnham transmitted. A moment later the charcoal swirls and eddies outside the canopy viewport dissipated to reveal a boxy, modular starship in the distance, her brilliant running lights reflecting off the backdrop of particulate matter like a dirty movie screen. Burnham watched as a set of clamshell shuttlebay doors slowly slid open, revealing the yellow tongue of a landing strip.

_“That would be the welcome mat, shuttlecraft. Feel free to come on inside,”_ Captain Crampton said. _“Do you require medical assistance, shuttlecraft?” _

“Negative, _Pretorious,_” Burnham answered. “Just some time to let our shuttle’s systems reboot.” She worked her tongue in her dry mouth, then added, “We have a body for internment.”

_“We can handle that, shuttlecraft. Take as much time as you need,”_ Crampton said pleasantly. Burnham had to admit that after weeks of Captain Lorca’s brittleness and sharp edges, Captain Crampton’s almost stereotypically human bonhomie was slightly unnerving.

Nonetheless she synced with the _Pretorious_’s guidance system and steered the shuttlcraft into the bay.

The door shut behind them.


	3. A Most Unsettling Settling-in

Burnham’s hand paused on the controls for the shuttlecraft’s rear loading ramp, as she winced at an unwelcome and intrusive series of memories. Another shuttlecraft, another rescue, another mysterious ship…

“What’s the hold-up?” Stamets asked. Let’s go.”

“Sorry,” Burnham said. “This all just seems uncomfortably familiar.” She noticed his blank look. “Never mind,” she said and lowered the ramp.

The differences between the _Pretorious_ and _Discovery_ were immediate and sharp. _Discovery_ had been clean and new when she’d been herded onto her decks. The lighting had been Starfleet standard: soft and even to prevent eye-strain among the various species that made up crew. _Pretorious_, by contrast, was darker, like stepping into a glass building at dusk. There were a few bright overhead lights that cast large cones of furious, white light while filling the periphery of the smallish shuttlebay with stark, strange shadows.

Most significantly, though, when she’d boarded _Discovery_ she’d been greeted by a brusque Commander Landry and her unsmiling security personnel. This shuttlebay, by contrast, was empty.

“They must be diverting all their power,”Stamets observed as he looked around the shuttlebay.

“But to what?” Burnham wondered aloud.

“Don’t care,” Colwyn announced. “It’s just better than getting asses shot off out there.”

“Where is everyone?” Lyssa asked as she stepped somewhat protectively behind Colwyn. “I thought someone would be here? Where’s the crew?”

“Apologies,” came Captain Crampton’s voice from an unseen speaker. It was clearer than it had been on the shuttlecraft, less garbled and obscured by static. Burnham was surprised by how mellifluous and lilting it was. She must be practiced public speaker, Burnham decided. “We’re operating on a skeleton crew right now. Please make yourselves comfortable, and someone should be with you shortly.”

“Make ourselves comfortable in a shuttlebay?” Colwyn asked. “How the hell do we do that?”

“The place is empty,” Stamets observed.

Burnham looked around. “Where are the shuttles?”

Before anyone could answer, the doorway opened with a sigh, revealing a slim, sleek silhouette. “Hello,” said the woman, stepping into the light. She was pretty in a modest fashion, her honey-blonde hair tied back in practical French braid. But her eyes were intense blue. “I’m Kate McMichaels. Doctor Kate McMichaels. Sorry for leaving you here like this, I was so engrossed in my project, I didn’t even know we had a shuttle land.” She smiled apologetically. “Bad manners.”

Burnham almost answered, but Stamets stepped forward. “That’s…that’s not a problem,” he said, and then, as he hurriedly introduced the group, Burnham once again reminded herself of who she was and who she was no longer.

“Well you’ve had quite a journey. Let’s get you settled in. “Unfortunately, we operating on a skeleton crew right now, so we don’t have any yeoman, but I think I can handle hostess duties for the time being,” she smiled dazzlingly, and Burnham revised her earlier opinion about the woman’s appearance.

“We have a casualty,” Burnham said. “Our shuttle pilot was killed in the rescue attempt.”

“Oh, that’s terrible,” Doctor McMichaels said, somewhat robotically to Burnham’s ears. “We’ll have a casualty detail collect the remains.” Her smile returned. “Why don’t we start with sickbay and get you checked out? Follow me.”

The corridor she led them down was as erratically-lit as the shuttlecraft, making the familiar Starfleet design suddenly seem alien and ominous. They saw no one.

“It’s so empty,” Burnham said.

“Yes, we’re operating on a skeleton crew,” Doctor McMichaels said. Burnham noted it was the third time she’d heard that phrase come out of the mouth of two people in the expanse of about ten minutes.

The sickbay was equally small and cramped—clearly Pretorious hadn’t been designed for deep-space exploration, but for research and study missions that entailed parking in space and necessitated less self-sufficiency. They were greeted by a sour-looking middle-aged man in a standard uniform with blue piping.

“This is Doctor Tillinghast,” Doctor McMichaels said. “He’s going to examine you.”

“You’re going to have to bear with me,” he said irritably as he sorted through a tray of medical instruments. “It’s been a while since I saw patients.”

“I’m sorry, what are you a doctor of?” Stamets asked.

“I’m a theoretical physicist,” he replied, finally settling on the medical scanner he wanted. “Kate’s a xenobiologist.”

“You don’t have a medical doctor? A physician?” Burnham asked.

“We used to, but we lost him when we offloaded the rest of the crew,” Doctor McMichaels explained while Tillinghast scanned Lyssa, pausing every so often to adjust his scanner.

“What made you offload your crew?”

McMichaels looked at her and blinked twice. “We’re conducting some critical research. Only essential personnel were assigned.” Burnham waited for more, but none was forthcoming, and there was only a moment of awkward silence.

“Uh, I see…” Stamets fumbled. “Well, we…uh, what kind of research?”

“We can’t talk about that,” Tillinghast snapped. “You should know that—“

McMichaels cut him off. “We can discuss it later.” Tillinghast threw her a poisonous look, but McMichaels’s vaguely beatific expression didn’t change. “Crawford? How are they?”

Tillinghast looked vaguely disoriented for a moment, as of he couldn’t understand where he was or what was happening to him, then slowly answered.

“They have some minor burns and low-level smoke inhalation, but I…I think a recovery-booster should…”

“Excellent,” McMichaels beamed and picked up a hypospray. “Let’s get you all a quick injection and then…food, perhaps?”

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather just get some sleep,” Lyssa said. “I’m exhausted.”

“Actually, I am too,” Colwyn said.

“Of course,” McMichaels answered. “Perfectly natural after a stressful event. And you two? Commander Stamets? Specialist Burnham?”

Stamets looked over at Burnham, who wasn’t really sure how to respond.

“I’d…uh. I could use some food.”

“Food would be fine,” Burnham added.

“Excellent,” McMichaels clapped her hands together. “Maybe we could discuss our work at the mess hall.”

“Kate,” Tillinghast aid sharply. “I really don’t think…”

“It’s perfectly all right,” she said brightly, then swung her unblinking blue gaze on the group. “Shall we?” she asked.


	4. The Great Big Empty

They walked again through dimly-lit, eerily quiet corridors. Burnham felt her hackles rising. This ship didn’t have the feel of any starship she’d ever been on before. All ships—any ship—had a sense of life to them. It was equally as true for the cramped, broken-in _Shenzhou _as it was for the sterile, immaculate _Discovery_. Ships were, in essence, bottled communities in space, and they carried within their bulkheads the sounds of countless conversations, the scents of bodies and uniforms, pheromones and fragrances.

This ship was more than empty. It was _still._

After showing Lyssa and Colwyn to their quarters, McMichaels led Burnham and Stamets to the mess hall.

“We’re really very excited,” she said. “The project has the potential to change what Starfleet defines as possible and impossible.”

“That seems…very impressive,” Burnham said, fumbling for words that conveyed the truth of what she felt without the blatant incredulity. It was a needle a childhood spent on Vulcan had taught her to thread.

“Oh, it is,” McMichaels said brightly. “Imagine being able to conduct planetary scans from a completely different system. Or detect a cloaked Klingon fleet? Or locate a damaged shuttlecraft in another quadrant. _That_ is what we’re working on.”

“That’s astounding,” Stamets said. “But also…what the word? Oh yes, completely insane.”

If McMichaels’s enthusiastic façade was penetrated, she didn’t show it. “It’s a lot to wrap your mind around, I grant you. Essentially, what we’re doing is located a sort of…I guess you could say a latticework that underpins the universe. If we can identify and understand that substructure, we can conceivably locate anything anywhere.”

Stamets eyes suddenly went wide and he met McMichaels’s brilliant, blue gaze with his own. “That’s amazing,” he gasped. “I’m doing the same thing on _Discovery._ Well, not exactly the same thing, but…have you ever heard of the mycelial network theory?”

“Of course,” the woman chirped. “The mycelial network theory was a huge influence on our work. It was the theory that got the scientific community to start changing how it looked at subspace.” She paused and cocked her head like a tropical bird. “Are you working on…”

“More than working on it,” Stamets said in a shushed, excited tone. “I’ve cracked it.”

Burnham cocked an eyebrow.

“I mean…well, the _Discovery _crew, and I…well, we’ve…we’ve figured out how to do it. We can travel along the network.”

McMichaels gasped, holding a hand over her mouth, and her eyes somehow widened even further. “That’s astonishing!”

“I mean, it’s not perfected yet, but what we’ve been able to do so far…well, like you it’s changing the reality of space travel.”

“My god…that’s amazing. I’d love to hear, well, everything you could tell me,” McMichaels smiled brilliantly and took a step closer to Stamets.

_That’s going to be an exercise in futility, Doctor,_ Burnham thought, and then was surprised by her own cattiness. “So, how far to the mess?” she asked.

McMichaels looked at her as if she’d just appeared out of thin air. “Oh, it’s right down the hall. Just there, see?” She pointed to a wide set of doors, the she turned back to Stamets. “So, Paul—may I call you Paul?—Paul, would you be interested in looking over some of our basic theories? I think your insight would be…”

It didn’t let up until they’d ordered food from the replicator and sat down. There were a smattering of people in the mess hall—maybe a dozen or so in a room intended to accommodate at least a hundred—but in the massive empty that was the _Pretorious_ it felt positively crowded.

“Isn’t it amazing?” Stamets ponered over a forkful of his Andorian seafood salad. “The work they’re doing here? It’s like a…a cousin to what I’m doing with the spore drive.”

“The implications certainly are revolutionary,” Burnham admitted. “But you haven’t seen anything yet. We don’t know how far along in their research they are or whether they even have anything to show for their work.”

“That’s why I’m going to give them an assist while we’re here,” Stamets said.

“What?” Burnham asked, startled. “It won’t take the shuttle that long to reboot its systems.

Stamets leaned forward. “Who cares? We can hail Discovery from here and wait for them. It’s less risky than going back out there anyway.”

“Commander, we have a mission. Lyssa and Colwyn—“

Stamets cut her off. “I’ll decide our mission, _Specialist_ Burnham,” he said defensively. “I am the ranking officer here.”

Burnham was silent as she mentally removed the barb from her skin. _(This is what you’ve earned with your actions…)_

“Look,” Stamets continued, slightly contrite. “I know what it takes to make that jump from theory to reality. The difficulty of that. And quite honestly, any chance I have to do real science—the kind of science before Lorca drafted me—“ he spat the captain’s name like a seed he’d just worked free from between his teeth—“Well, I’m going to take it.”

Burnham digested this. Of course she’d known that Stamets was unhappy with having his work impressed into the service of Captain Lorca’s prosecution of the war—he didn’t hide it-but until now she hadn’t considered the depths of his discontent. “Commander,” she said quietly, “I don’t think we should stay here longer than we have to. There’s something wrong with this ship. “

“What are you talking about?”

“Nothing about our docking was normal. No security team to greet us? In wartime? That’s an unconscionable violation of security protocols. And where is the crew? All anyone ever says is that they have a skeleton crew—as a matter of fact _everyone_ says that. That very phrase.”

Stamets blinked and shrugged. “So they’re not fully staffed…and it’s completely understandable that scientists and researchers wouldn’t the sharpest about security. Do you see me palling around with Landry very often?”

Burnham looked around the near-empty mess hall. “There’s something about this I don’t like.”

“Well, what you like doesn’t factor into things, Burnham,” Stamets said brusquely. “You don’t have to assist me, but we’re staying.” He put down his fork and wiped his mouth. “That’s all there is to it.”


	5. Visitations

_From its lair beyond space, it felt them. New minds and new flesh, the scent of them reached it through the keyhole between dimensions, between realities. Gleefully he probed into their world, reached its tendrils out and tasted their minds…_

Ensign Todd Colwyn stretched out on the long, narrow bed, and tried not to sleep. Ever since the perpetually-chipper doctor had deposited him here he’d been fighting this losing battle. The initial adrenaline dump, the blast of endorphins, all the residue from his evacuation of the _Messik_ had burned away, leaving him only with leaden exhaustion.

But every time his eyes closed, he was back there, running through the choking, burning corridors of his old starship. And then the corridors gave way to the electrified walls, studded with holograhic projectors and sensors, of his training center. That was the real torture. His mind reminded him of the hundreds of hours spent running through simulations—every scenario Starfleet Security could imagine—until he’d mastered the response to each. He knew how to repel a boarding party, how to fight past enemy shock troops to clear a path to safety or to escape. He knew how to fortify a position hard enough to bleed an enemy into tactical anemia as they threw wave after wave into his phaser fire.

And it was all worthless.

They trained against the tactics of Orion pirates, of marauders and terrorists from the Blue Zone, but not Klingons. No one had fought a Klingon in their lifetime, hell, they barely knew what they even looked like outside of some outdated academic texts.

When the attack came, the great, ornate ships emerged as if out of thin air and hammered _Messik_ with disruptors and torpedoes. The compact, Hoover-class ship had taken the pounding and lashed back as best it could, but within minutes the shields had collapsed, and crouched in his tactical position at the juncture of two main corridors, Colwyn had gripped his rifle a little tighter and steeled himself for the fight to come.

Except it hadn’t.

More explosions tore through the ship, and more systems failed, and soon _Messik_ bled atmosphere and power into the void. In the meantime, the Klingons carved up the ship like a cadaver on the slab. As a locomotive of fire and superheated gasses plowed through the corridor before him, carrying errant crewmembers like toys on its leading edge, Colwyn had the sudden, sickening realization that the Klingons didn’t care about a stand-up fight, and didn’t care about taking prisoners. They were going to pound the ship to ash from a thousand kilometers away. All his training and skills were completely and utterly worthless, and so was he.

Visions of his own obsolescence and uselessness greeted him as he drifted off, his eyelids losing the fight to stay open. He dreamt of battles and destruction and starships burning brightly against the endless, inky black curtain of space.

Eyes watched it all.

_In his dreams, Colwyn couldn’t make sense of them. He couldn’t even fully define or describe them. They were something just out of the reach of his understanding. He couldn’t say whether they large or small—the size of moons or of starships. He couldn’t say if they had color or shape. He only knew that they were there, set into a fabric of the universe, forever watching._

_And in the world that they watched, the Klingons boarded the Messik. They blew holes in the hull and sent wave after wave of shock troops to capture the ship. Colwyn repelled the attacks with a trio of security personnel. They hardened their positions and established overlapping fields of fire. They did everything they had been trained to do, and it worked. It all worked. _

_It was a better world, a better reality, than the one he had fallen asleep from, and Colwyn understood the implicit choice offered to him. Of the two, he preferred this one._

_In his dreams, Colwyn fought heroically in a war that he understood, a war in which he could prevail. In reality, in the bunk aboard the Pretorious, his body began to change…_

********

_Nomi Lyssa dreamed of a universe at peace, where no races took arms against one another, and all sentient species worked together as one to push out into the vastness of the universe. She tumbled through the cosmos, watching world after world bloom like flowers, and their people stand and reach out toward light—a thousand worlds pulsing with life, glowing like enchanted jewels against space…_

_…Space, where the eyes watched._

_And she gladly made her choice. It was no decision at all. Wasn’t this reality better than the one she currently exited within? Wasn’t this the best, most perfect existence? _

_The eyes saw all and transformed all that they saw. Including Lyssa’s corporeal body._

_She sprouted mandibles._

_********_

Michael Burnham was too frustrated and annoyed to sleep, so instead she knelt on her bunk and meditated. It had always been one of the few things she could share with Sarek during her childhood, and she had carried the habit into adulthood, where she found it helpful in quieting a mind that had become markedly more riotous since rejoining human society.

Tonight, she let her mind go a dun grey as she sought to let the burning, unhelpful emotions of the past day drain away like dirty water.

_“Why do you believe you are entitled to any sort of peace of mind when you are the source of so much of the galaxy’s chaos?”_

_Sarek?_ She groped for his mind with hers, seeking any trace of the lingering connection they shared ever since they’d melded minds a lifetime ago.

_“How many thousands have died due to your actions? How many millions are yet to die before it is over?”_

_I tried to prevent it. I tried to do what you told me…_

_“What you tried and what you intended are quite irrelevant. The only thing of importance is what you accomplished. Have you adequately taken stock of your accomplishments? The Klingon attacks? The dying crew members of the _USS Messik_?”_

_No! I..._

_“And what of the damaged psyches of the crewmembers you rescued? Minds irretrievably warmed by violence that are now so malleable and susceptible?”_

_Sarek what are you talking about?_

_“If you could repair what your have done, would it not be logical to take any measures to do so? Regardless of personal cost?”_

_If there was a way…But we both know that there is not._

_“But of there was, would you bear any cost?”_

_You yourself said that engaging in fantastical hypotheticals was a ‘childish exercise and a waste of mental faculties.’ _

_“Would you?”_

_Sarek?_

_“WOULD YOU?!?”_

Immediately, Burnham knew it was not Sarek’s consciousness she had touched and she reached out with her mind even further into the endless grey void.

And then she saw the eyes.

All at once her body seized as if she’d touched a live wire. The flood of thoughts and feelings that filled her mind were raw and vile and totally devoid of any reference she could find. It was not simply alien, it was more than that, beyond that. It felt like nothing that belonged in this world.

The eyes squinted at her.

_“Pity. You would have been useful.”_

Against the grey nothingness, she saw two hideous silhouettes that grew larger as if approaching. Someplace in the corner of her mind she understood that these shapes were perversions of some natural form.

_“But I suppose we can do this the hard way, too.”_

Burnham leapt from the bed and bounded for the door. The voice echoed in her mind.

_“And when I’m finished you’ll be horrific.”_


	6. Discovering Terror

Stamets called up the next set of equations on his holographic display, and the air before him filled with numbers and characters.

“So, this is where we’re sort of stumped,” McMichaels said, stabbing at the floating script. “We’re close—we know we’re close—but we just can’t master the power curves necessary for success.”

Stamets squinted at the text. “That’s…I mean, that’s an astounding amount of power you’re trying to channel.”

“Which is why we want to realign the deflector emitter to refract it into smaller, more shaped emission. Like the point of a chisel.”

“But you’re…it looks like you’re trying to punch a hole in subspace,” Stamets observed. “When we mapped the mycelial network, it was a matter of detecting something we had no instruments to detect. This is…” 

“It’s like pulling up the floorboards to get to the pipes,” McMichaels beamed. “Or, more accurately, drilling a hole so you can slide a sensor probe through. We’ve weakened a spot here, but just haven’t been able to penetrate that last little bit.”

“Well, Stamets said, “if it’s just a matter of reconfiguring the output. I can help you with that.”

McMichaels smiled broadly. “Doctor Stamets, I’m so thrilled to hear that.” 

“Call me Paul. And it’s the least I can do for a fellow scientist,” Stamets said and got to work. He arranged and rearranged the numbers in space before him. Every so often seeming to catch a glimpse of something watching him from the other side of the field of numbers, but when he blinked it was gone.

********

Scientific Log: _USS Pretorious_

KMCMICAELS STARDATE 7655.2

…ultimately we decided that this was the best tack to take. It’s an understatement to say that I’m unhappy with this new direction, seeing years of work delayed because something new and shiny caught Crawford’s attention. Still, I’m a good warrior-scientist. I’ll follow my orders…

KMCMICAELS STARDATE 7655.35

Much as I hate to admit it, this discovery probably does eclipse my bio-gel experiment. I doubt that it quite reaches the level that Crawford claims—his tendency for embellishment is one of the more endearing and frustrating things about him—but if we can make a solid contribution to the war effort… 

KMCMICAELS STARDATE 7655.57

We don’t sleep anymore. We don’t need it. The project consumes our every waking moment. It fills us, and gives us a kinship and connection beyond mere comradery. We are joined in purpose. We have all felt its touch and understand the enormity of our undertaking and of the miracle we will bring.

KMCMICAELS STARDATE 7655.63

The work continues apace, but I fear we are hitting a wall. It has expanded our minds in way we could have never imagined but we are still limited by our tether to this plastic existence. We have tried to report our progress to Starfleet Command, but their limited minds are unable to comprehend the way that we will transform reality. We have, instead, opted to bypass their analysis and record our findings in an encoded file in our mission log named ABRAXIS. 

KMCMICAELS STARDATE 7655.70

It has reduced the crew compliment. It has redistributed the redundant and unnecessary crew members, used their raw material as fuel for us. It has transformed the bridge crew into their most perfectly efficient forms. It will transform us all into perfect things. It will transform this existence—the Universe as we understand it will be molded and shaped into something more beautiful. All of eternity will be rewritten.

********

Burnham closed the ship’s log and slapped the comm panel with the edge of her hand. “Commander Stamets, we need to go immediately,” she said breathlessly. 

_"Burnham, we’ve already had this conversation, so if you can’t find anything better to do to pass the time—“_

“You don’t understand, Commander. While I was meditating, I detected a… a…_presence_. A mind so alien, like nothing I’ve ever experienced. It’s affecting this crew. I think it’s controlling them.

She heard Stamets’s snort even through the comm panel.

_“Burnham, I don’t have time for this. We’re doing amazing work here, and you’re interrupting it. You know, I’m tempted to put you on report to Captain Lorca when we get back to the _Discovery_—“_

Burnham cut the line, then keyed the bridge. “Burnham to bridge!” She waited but there was no answer. She keyed the comms again. “Burnham to Captain Crampton, please respond!” but the comms remained maddeningly silent. Not simply unresponded to, but wholly dead, as if the unit itself had stopped working.

Frustration welled up in her, and Burnham recognized the danger that came with it. She tended to make her rashest, most impulsive decisions when facing the wall of human obstinacy. As always, it was impossible to resist.

She darted into her room—welcomingly lit compared to the hallway—and grabbed up her phaser pistol off the bed and clipped it to her hip. Then she turned and headed for the turboshaft. The doors opened welcomingly, but the bridge was off-limits to her. Those controls were darkened. It might have been a deterrent, Burnham pondered, if she hadn’t ascended to the rank of commander. She pulled up the system’s architecture, and quickly scanned the base code, then inserted her own identification coding. Immediately, the bridge option lit up, and the lift lurched upward.

_If you don’t want to answer, I’m just going to have to kick in the door…_she thought ferociously as the lift hummed upward. After a moment her skin prickled, and the lights began to dim. A moment later, she felt the chill permeate her uniform and slowly make its way to her flesh. Her breath steamed. _Where the hell was this thing taking her?_

The lift slowed to a stop, and Burnham’s hand fell onto the grip of her phaser.

The lights dimed almost to darkness and the turbolift doors whooshed open. Burnham took in what she saw in the bridge. It immediately overwhelmed her human sensibilities, and her mind fell back onto the bloodless comfort of Vulcan logic. When that failed, she reacted instinctively:

She screamed.


	7. The Horror Show

_Their minds were completely fungible now, as malleable as their physical forms. They were appendages now, extensions of an existence that it controlled. It moved them along the darkened corridors of the ship, intensifying its gaze and further transforming them. They sprouted segmented limbs, claws, and tentacles—nightmares that defied the natural order of their universe._

_But their universe could be rewritten--would be rewritten--and the inquisitive, expansive mind that had reached out to the void would make that rewriting possible…_

_And the things that had once been Lieutenant Colwyn and Ensign Lyssa lurched toward the secondary turbolift…_

********

Burnham’s mind struggled to accept and conceptualize what she saw, and the result was flashes of cool, comprehensible reality interspersed with images of sheer madness.

\--A tactical console similar to the newish design she’d seen fielded in the _Magee_-class research ships gave way to glistening rolls of perspiring epidermis. 

\--A tri-console scientific station displayed mundane sensor readings of the dark nebula embracing the ship…and biomatter tendrils extended into the human-sized living brain that still bore tattered remnants of a Starfleet uniform…

\--A patch of standard deck plating eased into the support columns of a single-unit comm/navigation station, that was, instead, a writhing, squealing, tumorous mass of eyes and fingers…

“Don’t be alarmed,” the thing that had been Captain Crampton gurgled. “We have achieved perfect efficiency. Starfleet will be so pleassssedd…” The face—an obscene parody of a woman’s, now blue/black and necrotic—grinned hideously and drooled more viscous liquid. It wavered back and forth like a cobra atop an umbilical of glistening, moist flesh meshed with plastisteel that connected the head to a pulsing, sweating lump of flesh and metal and plastic that had once been her command chair. 

All around the darkened bridge, illuminated only in nightmarish fragments by the strobing a few still-intact lights, the remainder of the bridge crew had been similarly transmogrified into biomechanical horrors: flesh laced with synthetics, limbs bisected, operating independently of bodies, having sprouted dozens of tendril-like fingers that ran through throbbing, gargling masses of bleeding meat that had once been starship controls. Deformed heads swayed on willowy, swaying stalks, lips squirming asynchronously, making sounds unheard before by this universe, while starfish-like eyes reached tiny limbs out from their sockets.

Burnham’s whole body trembled and she stumbled backward to the turbolift, hands fumbling with the phaser. Her mind was saved only by her Vulcan mental training, which managed to at last contain the psychological impact of the scene around her and channel it into the most logical question at the moment:

_“What are you?”_

“We are perrrfectt…” Captain Crampton said, “because we are perfectttllly….made by god…” The thing burbled more liquid and smiled.

Already thinking of a different communication tack, Burnham’s attention was caught by the hiss of the secondary turbolift near the far corner of the room. She drew her phaser—

\--_too late!_ An indistinct shape exploded from the umber glow of the turbolift interior, crossed the bridge in a single, perfect arc, and knocked Burnham to the deck, landing atop her. The thing was a vaguely humanoid mass of appendages and tentacles which wound sickly around her limbs, pinning and immobilizing her. It no longer had anything recognizable as a head or neck, only a slight tapering to the tentacle mass. The deck beneath her exposed skin felt warm and slick like an organ.

_“We need you. You are important. Isn’t that an honor?”_ a reedy, lilting voice fluttered from somewhere near the edge of the bridge.

Burnham managed to turn her head and saw another figure gliding serenely toward her. It had clearly once been Lyssa—the uniform was still mostly intact, and there were traces of her long, coiled hair flowing from what had become of her skull—but the rest of her was something alien and monstrous. Compound eyes regarded her benignly.

“What the hell do you want?”

_“Your mind,”_ the thing that had been Lyssa answered simply.

And then the tendrils grabbed her face. She retched with the revulsion of the touch: like having a mass of worms dropped on her face. Then she felt the presence, the touch of a mind. Like the bridge, it was a patchwork of familiar thoughts and feeling, and something else incomprehensible save for horror.

_My thoughts to your thoughts…_

She reached out frantically with her mind, rode the unfamiliar waves of a partially alien consciousness like surfing a tidal wave, found a recognizable fragment—_Ensign Colwyn!!!—_and shoved through all the memories she could…

…The Sarcophagus Ship looming like a dragon before the undersized, undergunned _Shenzhou…_

_\--fear—_

…The strobes of phasers, the last of torpedoes, the carnage of The Battle of Binary Stars…

_\--fear, humiliation, impotence--_

Captain Georgiou’s eyes widening with shock as T’Kuvma’s blade tore through her body, rending the Starfleet uniform that contained it…

_\--self hatred, purposelessness, fury—_

The thing recoiled enough at the emotions charging through its mind for Burnham to pull her gun-hand free and fire three quick bolts into it. It made an inhuman keening sound and loosened its grip.

Abruptly the whole bridge echoed with the same unnatural roar. Burnham pulled away threw herself bodily into the turbolift and punched the controls with the heel of her left hand.

The things rushed toward her.

Before the doors closed, she let off a long, blast that disintegrated whatever was left of the two Starfleet officers she’d rescued that morning.


	8. Waking Nightmare

_He was so close, so close, so close, but still the answers danced maddeningly just beyond his reach. And in those answers lie perfect contentment, fulfillment, the completion of all things. Beside it, the mycelial network, warp travel, splitting the atom were all minor and unimportant. This work was the bidding of God…_

But he didn’t believe in God, any god. Stamets shook his head as if to clear it of the unfamiliar thoughts that had been crowded into it more and more recently. _Stress_, he thought. _Stress and combat…it’s getting to you._

“We’re still behind,” Tillinghast groused from the opposite end of the room, where he was recalibrating a sensor array. “We should have finished by now! We should have freed it by now.”

_Freed it?_ Stamets wondered.

“Don’t pay any attention to Crawford, Paul. You’re doing excellent work. Your calculations have turned up our timetable by a tenfold.” McMichaels said sweetly from his elbow. “I think we can complete this today with additional sharp minds committed to the task.”

Stamets felt a fleck of irritation trouble his mood. Ever since she’d been kidnapped/rescued/whatever by Captain Lorca, Specialist Michael Burnham had seemingly come to a level of outsized importance in relation to his work on the spore drive. Before Burnham, he’d been able to pursue his scientific breakthrough in relative peace. After Burnham, he was exploring dead ships and being chased by gigantic tardigardes. This timing wasn’t coincidental he was certain.

“Well, if you’re talking about Specialist Burnham, I don’t think that going to happen,” he answered tartly. “I just spoke to her. She’s…well, I think she’s suffering _emotionally_ from dealing with the last few days. She seems, well, paranoid quite frankly.”

McMichaels cocked her head. “Oh? How so?” she asked, her enormous blue eyes widening with beatific concern.

“I…well, you know, she didn’t make sense. She’s a bit of a drama queen, to tell you the truth.”

“Still,” McMichaels said, “she could be invaluable to our efforts.”

“No!” Tillinghast stormed over to them, his slight frame bent at the waist as if his head and shoulders were outrunning the rest of his body. “We _discussed_ this! We cannot allow her—“

“Crawford, we need the help. We’re so close, but if the Klingons find this ship, they’ll destroy us without a second thought and he’ll be trapped…”

_“Don’t say that!”_

_What the hell is wrong with these people? _The furious clarity of the thought caused Stamets to sway on his feet a little as the incongruity of the past few hours suddenly seemed to scroll through his mind. Why was he here? Why hadn’t they hailed _Discovery_ for a pick-up? Why was he so willingly assisting a research project that…that…

“This doesn’t make any sense,” he said, as much to himself as to McMichaels. “These calculations don’t seem to be mapping any intraspace network. They’re too heavily tachyon-loaded. If anything, they seem to be…”

He was interrupted by a commotion behind him, and he saw the faces of McMichaels and Tillinghast register alarm.

He spun and saw Specialist Burnham charging at him. She had a slight limp, and she was holding a phaser. “Commander, we have to go!” she gasped. _“Now!”_

She raised the phaser and fired.

********

Burnham watched as Tillinghast recoiled at the phaser hit, his flesh seeming to slide away from his skeleton as if it was a separate entity. He cried out an eerie, inhuman wail.

“Burnham, what the hell--?” Stamets started then broke off in confusion and terror at the sight of Tillinghast.

“Paul,” McMichaels said gently, gliding toward him, “you need to understand what you’re helping to make happen...”

“Don’t move!” Burnham shouted and drew a bead on the woman’s head.

“The equations,” Stamets said. “Like they were building a bridge in time as well as boring through subspace. You’re not mapping some subspace network. What are you doing?”

“You have to understand what we’ve discovered here. What we’ve been able to communicate with.” McMichael's enormous blue eyes shone with alien excitement.

“We have to go, Lieutenant,” Burnham urged, not lowering the phaser. “Something’s happening to the crew of this ship. Something monstrous.”

“We are…so close…” the thing that was Tillinghast managed through its now-deformed mouth.

“We found it here,” McMichaels said. “It spoke with us, found us through our efforts to peel back subspace. It's been here since before the Universe was born, and now it exists somewhere beyond conventional space/time.”

Burnham felt her stomach roil as McMichael’s beaming features began to swirl and change.

“It created an entire existence, billions of years before the Big Bang. It can do the same to our universe through the portions of space we’ve weakened,” the thing Tilinghast had become said.

“It’s going to remake everything…” McMichaels managed before her face twisted into something incapable of human speech, then blossomed into an obscene flower of skin and muscle and tendon.

Stamets screamed. Burnham fired into the thing. It reached out to them with clawed hands, shrugging off the phaser bolts.

Another inhuman wail filled the room, and from the shadows Tillinghast’s body stretched toward them on an elongated ribbon of flesh, his mouth now a gaping chasm lined with sharklike teeth.

“FUCK!” Stamets screamed and threw himself to the deck, just as Burnham held the trigger on the phaser and burned the thing out of existence. 

Now the thing that had been McMichaels made an alien keening sound, and swiped the air with long-taloned digits. _“YOUUU SSSSTANDDD BEEEEFORE GOOOOOOD!” _It bellowed before its anatomy became no longer capable of human speech. It stabbed at the console nearest to it, one eye extended on an elastic stalk taking in the readout, and the great, cavernous room went dim as the ship hummed around them with the flow of massive amounts of energy.

“We’ve got to get out of here!” Burnham called out.

“Fucking obviously!” Stamets shouted back as he scrambled to his feet.

“Get to the turbolift!”

Stamets bolted as Burnham fired on the thing that been McMichaels, the phaser holts bouncing harmlessly off it as they were made of rubber. He piled inside and held the door.

“Burnham!”

But she’d already sprinted across the expanse of the engineering room and lunged into the lift. Stamets released the doors and the capsule shot up through the shaft.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” he gasped. Burnham managed not to slap him silly.

“Oh, you think?”

“Well, I didn’t know that…that…Burnham what the hell is going on here? What was that thing? Was that Doctor McMichaels? Was there ever a Doctor McMichaels?”

“I think so,” Burnham said as she checked the power pack on the phaser. She had about a quarter left. “I’ve found some logs that indicate that McMichaels—before she…That she was telling the truth. They found something here. Something that could, I don’t know…reach out from before the beginning of creation. Something that lived…” Michaels mind was beginning to dissemble with the unimaginability of what she was saying.

“There are still particles and cosmic rays from before the Big Bang,” Stamets said. “It’s not inconceivable that there would be a…a…doorway? A window? A way into this universe. But what’s looking through the window?” 

“Something beyond our understanding,” Burnham answered. “Something terrible.”

The lift stopped at the shuttlebay, and they made for the waiting shuttlecraft, sitting alone and scarred in a small pool of light. “What if they don’t let us leave?” Stamets asked breathlessly as they belted in.

“I don’t think they’re worried about us,” Burnham said as she worked the controls and gently lifted the craft off the deck. “You felt it. The ship is powering up. They’ve got to be close to breaking through to that thing.”

“Doctor McMichaels said we were close.” Stamets turned and faced her. “Burnham, you have to know I never knew…I wouldn’t have…”

“Don’t worry about it, Lieutenant,” she said as gently as she could while punching the throttle and maneuvering the ship through the half-closed shuttlebay doors. “It gets in your mind. I felt it, too.”

“But you didn’t join us,” Stamets said dourly.

“It helps when you’ve been raised by Vulcans,” she replied. “My mental discipline is stronger than most humans.”

“That actually makes me feel better,” Stamets said a little more lightly. “But, I…” he dropped off as the shuttle arced away from the _Pretorious_ and the entirety of the ship suddenly came into view. A solid column of scarlet energy extended from the ship’s lateral sensor array to a fixed point in the nebula which grew brighter and brighter, and, as they watched, horrified, began to resemble ripped fabric.

“They’re doing it!” Stamets exclaimed. “Burnham, we’ve got to stop them.”

But Burham’s attention was caught by the warning playing across her tactical display.

“We can’t stop them,” she said. “This shuttle’s unarmed.”

“Well, we can’t just let them succeed!”

Burnham met his gaze. “We’re not.”


	9. The Monster Blinked

The hunt had been sidetracked by the unexpected appearance of a civilian merchant convoy that stumbled off-course. They sent a distress call when their sensors detected the _M’Chla-_class ship bearing down upon them from the electromagnetic noise of an unstable star a few light years away. Once the first ship in the convoy was destroyed, the convoy transmitted their surrender and listed the contents of their cargo.

It meant nothing to the followers of House Hak’akrrl, who—their talents as shipwrites aside—were regarded with distaste and more than a little fear within the Empire due to an outsized bloodlust that eclipsed all else. Another house might have captured the convoy—if only to plunder the cargo. But House Hak’karrl cared little for the fortunes of war, only the death it brought. Privately, they were regarded less as a Klingon House of Nobility and more of a death cult.

Once the convoy was reduced to little more than ionized debris, they resumed the hunt, and, to their surprise and delight, detected a strong Starfleet warp signature. The pilot, it seemed, had tried to hide it from within the sands of a dark nebula. They dove into it, charged particles lighting up the great ship’s wingtips, until they pierced the cloud’s great, dark heart.

The bridge crew cheered at the view that greeted them: not simply a puny shuttlecraft, but a Starfleet ship-of-the-line, engaged in some sort of scientific pursuit that required so much power they’d bled their deflector shields to a bare minimum.

The ship’s commander ran his tongue over his sharpened incisors and gave the command to attack.

********

From where they drifted in space, hundred of kilometers away, Burnham watched the distant points of green light that was the Klingon attack. A moment later a massive, blinding fireball bloomed as the _Pretorious_ exploded. Camouflaged by the flood of subspace radio noise caused by the cataclysmic matter/anti-matter explosion, she powered up the shuttlecraft’s systems and went to warp.

“It’s not over,” Stamets said after a moment.

“_Pretorious _is dead,” Burnham replied as she sent a hail to the _Discovery_ and plotted a course. “Their research is gone. Whatever it is. Was. It can’t come through.”

“We don’t know that,” Stamets whispered, his eyes fixed at some point beyond the streaks of stars outside the viewport. “It lives outside our plane of existence, but somehow it can see in. It’s waiting for another chance to come through, and it’s always watching.”

They didn’t speak for the rest of the journey back to _Discovery_.

EPILOGUE

Neither Burnham nor Stamets had been expecting to be welcomed back with an abundance of warmth or concern.

“Good thing we found the two of you,” Captain Lorca said brusquely from where he stood behind his obsidian desk, “otherwise the spore drive project would be delayed incalculably.”

When they reported on the strange events of the _Pretorious,_ Lorca showed only the barest trace of interest, summing the matter up casually. “Good thing they didn’t succeed. Nice thinking, Burnham, using the Klingons to take out the ship like that.”

When they’d left his office, though, he frowned at the screen of the computer terminal to his left. After a moment, he logged into Starfleet’s main database and used his command codes to access the files and updates from the _USS Pretorious_. He accessed the file named ABRAXIS.

As he read, he noticed faintly against the background of the screen, a pair of eyes regarding him.


End file.
